A wealth of embarrassments
Mar. 31st, 2007 11:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rissymonsterAfter a day of interviewing high school students for a scholarship program, and baby-sitting ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nickykaa's lovely baby, I met up with the bobsquatch and a bunch of others for Highlander's funny dress/tell an embarrassing story birthday party. A good time is had by all and there are embarrassing stories galore, including my shower interruptus trilogy, which didn't even crack the top three. The party ends and we wended our way to BART with, I thought, plenty of time to get the next BART train.
Out of deference to my forearms, the 'squatch and I traded accoutrements (my bike for his shepherd costume walking stick) for the walk down the stairs. At which point, we realize it is 10:07, and the Fremont train's pulling up.
Not wanting to have to wait another 20 minutes, we scramble for tickets and Bob hoists my bike over the turnstile. I go through first, and note there is nobody else between us and the stairs to the train. In a fit of idiocy, I decide it would make sense for me to try help B out in running for the train by juggling my ticket and its protective sleeve in one hand, the walking stick in my other hand, and the bike in my third and fourth (non-existent) hands. This predictably ends with me slamming my bad knee into the back tire of the bike, falling over, and lying splayed out on my side/back on the floor of the Downtown Berkeley BART station.
Other than my rapidly bruising knee and a few scrapes on my hand, I'm basically okay but a little embarrassed. But then, the BART station person on-duty ambles over to make sure I'm not going to sue them.
Did I mention that the party dictated funny dress? From the neck down, I look pretty normal, having sported the same basic outfit from the interviews in the morning to the party in the evening. From the neck up, it's a different story--my hair is spiked three ways until Sunday, I'm wearing a tiara, and around my neck? Swim goggles, of course.
The station agent asks me some questions, and despite my lucid replies, it rapidly becomes clear that she's thinks I'm drunk off my ass. Which, really, who can blame her.
The one thing that will absolutely fail in convincing someone you're not drunk is to say "But I'm not drunk!", so I'm forced to stand there in embarrassed agony screaming it internally while eventually convincing her that I'm either a) not totally drunk and/or b) B'squatch is sufficiently sober (since he'd de-costumed before leaving the restaurant).
And we missed the #$@#'ing train.
nickykaa's lovely baby, I met up with the bobsquatch and a bunch of others for Highlander's funny dress/tell an embarrassing story birthday party. A good time is had by all and there are embarrassing stories galore, including my shower interruptus trilogy, which didn't even crack the top three. The party ends and we wended our way to BART with, I thought, plenty of time to get the next BART train. Out of deference to my forearms, the 'squatch and I traded accoutrements (my bike for his shepherd costume walking stick) for the walk down the stairs. At which point, we realize it is 10:07, and the Fremont train's pulling up.
Not wanting to have to wait another 20 minutes, we scramble for tickets and Bob hoists my bike over the turnstile. I go through first, and note there is nobody else between us and the stairs to the train. In a fit of idiocy, I decide it would make sense for me to try help B out in running for the train by juggling my ticket and its protective sleeve in one hand, the walking stick in my other hand, and the bike in my third and fourth (non-existent) hands. This predictably ends with me slamming my bad knee into the back tire of the bike, falling over, and lying splayed out on my side/back on the floor of the Downtown Berkeley BART station.
Other than my rapidly bruising knee and a few scrapes on my hand, I'm basically okay but a little embarrassed. But then, the BART station person on-duty ambles over to make sure I'm not going to sue them.
Did I mention that the party dictated funny dress? From the neck down, I look pretty normal, having sported the same basic outfit from the interviews in the morning to the party in the evening. From the neck up, it's a different story--my hair is spiked three ways until Sunday, I'm wearing a tiara, and around my neck? Swim goggles, of course.
The station agent asks me some questions, and despite my lucid replies, it rapidly becomes clear that she's thinks I'm drunk off my ass. Which, really, who can blame her.
The one thing that will absolutely fail in convincing someone you're not drunk is to say "But I'm not drunk!", so I'm forced to stand there in embarrassed agony screaming it internally while eventually convincing her that I'm either a) not totally drunk and/or b) B'squatch is sufficiently sober (since he'd de-costumed before leaving the restaurant).
And we missed the #$@#'ing train.
